(no subject)

They break atmo ten minutes later, flames licking at Serenity's nose before they drop into the cool, bright silence of the black. Wash lets go of the controls and drinks it in, letting out a slow breath, leaning back in his chair --

Wait.

Wash frowns. Wiggles the chair around.

It doesn't feel right.

He looks out the windscreen, and is met with an uncertain, unwelcome wariness that he can't place -- the briefest flash of red that he blinks back with a minute shiver.

After several minutes, he gets up, switches the controls over, and crosses to the co-pilot's chair, tumbling into the well-worn fabric with an audible sigh.

There. He leans his head back. That's better.

Some time later, he checks their band trajectory and engages a wave to Bentley Aeronautics.

Upon connection, a soft, monotonous beep precedes a pleasant (if mechanised) female voice informing Wash that he is on hold; ID 'Bentley. Aeronautics.' is receiving another wave right now, but will be with him directly.

This is followed by quiet, equally monotonous music: something that was popular on the broadwaves fifty years ago, overplayed to annoyance, then crushed down into a handy package of bland and run through a blender of more bland. The screen displays pockets of soft, blurred blobs that rotate through a full spectrum of blue.

Eventually, however, a bar appears on the screen; its three segments light up, one after the other - bleep, bleep, bleep - before Crowley's face flickers into view on the screen, the trappings of his office visible behind him.

"Plan number one involved marching into the infirmary and ripping out anything that's keeping Niska alive," he says, far too calmly, "but that didn't work. So, I'm sticking with plan number two of hanging around here for a while, getting sleep in a real bed, and enjoying my privelige as second-in-command until Mal's out, too. It's going to be a weekend packed with action, lemme tell you."

"I don't even think there're any copies still around," he says through his sniggers. "'Less Aziraphael has one, maybe. I mean, what do I even say? 'Hey, here, read about the thrilling tale of me helping to save the 'verse through incompetence'?"

He's pinching the bridge of his nose, now, and trying not to start laughing uncontrollably again.

"He used to wear these, these huge jumpers," Crowley illustrates by extending his arms around him, "and then jackets over, and I told him, I said it wouldn't work in his favour, but noooo... Also, the hands. See the hands."

"I'm still not even sure exactly why we did it," he says, shaking his head. "Except that - I mean, these people almost were all wiped out, and they'd never know, and... just, you know when something so huge happens, and you just need to tell anyone, 'cos you can barely even believe it happened yourself?"

A faintly conspiratorial gleam in his eyes, he leans back to check the door again (unnecessary, but old paranoia dies hard) before ducking below the line of sight of the screen. There's a rich wooden sound; a drawer sliding open.

"The Unholy Tyre Iron of Andronicus," he whispers dramatically. With a small, teasing scoff, "And you just leave it sitting around in your desk drawer. For shame. There's museums that'd pay millions for a relic like that."

"Not that it works for everyone, mind," he continues, hefting its weight idly in his hand. "But I've often found that pokers will do almost as well. Or, in a pinch, a beer-bottle or rolled-up newspaper."

A nod. "Yeah, once, sort of, except it wasn't...." Trying to jar his memory, Wash makes a small circling gesture with one hand. "She said she was...hell, what was it, started with an H -- I don't remember," he concludes, letting his hand fall. "It was a while ago. Anyway, lion lookalike, not really a lion."